


Glorious Summer

by Daegaer



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Battle of Bosworth Field, Demons, Gen, Plantagenets, Tudors - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-04-25
Updated: 2004-04-25
Packaged: 2020-05-15 11:43:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19295044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daegaer/pseuds/Daegaer
Summary: Crowley fights at Bosworth Field.





	Glorious Summer

The king reined his huge white horse round and pointed down the hill at the traitor's position.

"The fool is left almost unguarded! Let us finish this now!"

"Aye, my lord!" Francis yelled. "With the Welsh bastard dead they will melt away! One good push and the day is fully yours!"

All the king's friends were yelling their agreement, readying themselves for the mad dash down into the enemy, spurring each other's courage on and on. Crowley looked with great misgivings at the hill where the _other_ forces were, the ones that were just waiting to see which way the wind would finally blow.

"You know," he said, "maybe this isn't such a good idea. We've practically finished them today, I really think we could assume they won't be much trouble to deal with when we haven't got a third army waiting to mop up the field of whoever's left standing."

The king's horse shouldered its way close to his, and the king looked seriously at him, reaching out a mail-clad hand to briefly grasp his forearm. Crowley looked into the pleasant, dirt-streaked face and knew the man's mind was made up. _Listen to me, you stubborn northern bastard,_ he thought. _I'm one of your bloody advisors, let me advise you._

"You've heard the rumours he's been spreading about me," the king said quietly. "It's necessary to silence him before any more of the nobles start believing that filth." His face hardened. "I will not have the memory of my dear wife treated so. I will wipe out the insult in his blood. Do not oppose me in this, Anthony."

"No, your Grace," Crowley said, casting his eyes down as if ashamed and frantically thinking of a way of getting off the battlefield. Friendship was one thing, suicide was quite another.

"Good man," the king said, patting his arm. "I must give you better estates, Anthony. You will have your pick after this day."

"Thank you," Crowley said. He watched the king turn away and fish out the neck chain from under his armour and kiss first the cross and then the picture of the queen. Something flickered in the king's eyes as he did so and Crowley suddenly thought that maybe he wasn't the only person thinking of this charge as suicide. _I wish I'd been around when she was ill,_ he thought, _then maybe you wouldn't be acting so bloody stupidly_. Well, it wasn't too late to influence history, even if it was a little more direct than he favoured. He liked the king, and it would be -- useful -- to keep him on the throne. Yes. It would serve Crowley well if he kept the fellow safe. It would be too much work to get to know a new regime and have to deal with a whole different set of royalty and nobles. It was actually perfectly sensible to ride a quarter of a ton of armoured horse at full speed down a hill to crash into several tons of enemy armoured horse and to dodge sharp metal being expertly wielded by desperate enemy soldiers. Crowley swallowed and found his mouth and throat completely dry. Nothing to worry about. If he kept his head nothing could touch him. Of course, he was currently expending a lot of attention on making sure the horses around him and the one under him didn't go into hysterical fits at his presence. Bloody horses. What the hell was wrong with them, anyway?

The king's friends formed themselves into a guard and took their weapons in their hands. The king looked for a final time over at Crowley and smiled.

"You're not such a bad fellow for what you are, Anthony. I've always valued your advice," he said cheerfully. "I hope following it won't get me into too much trouble -- hereafter."

Crowley blinked. The king laughed and slammed his visor down. Crowley had very little time to worry about the bad feeling that swept over him as the king wheeled his horse around and led the charge down the hill. Crowley's horse followed all the others, even though Crowley was pulling on the reins and telling it in no uncertain terms what he thought of its parentage. As he sped down the hill he wondered if perhaps he should have paid more attention to the flash of red he had seen in the beast's eyes that morning. Maybe someone had replaced his horse with one of Hell's specials. The enemy was coming up fast, he could see the alarm on their faces as they realised just who was riding at them and tried to bring their visors down, he could see the traitor backing his horse up in a panic, he could see the swords and axes come up, and

They hit.

A few yards ahead of him Crowley saw the king swing his axe round in a vicious blow and take some poor bastard foot soldier's arm off at the shoulder. Beside him, Francis slashed one of the enemy knights in the face and the man fell off his horse, screaming through a mass of blood and pulped flesh. Crowley had little pity to spare for a man who went into battle improperly armoured, especially as an axe was coming his way. He blocked the blow and gave thanks for his excellent peripheral vision as he saw another blow coming in from the side. No one could possibly see what he was doing, so he gave the second attacker a heart attack and twisted his arm in a humanly impossible way to free up his weapon. His opponent's eyes, what he could see of them through the face grill, looked surprised. They looked even more surprised when Crowley's axe came round in an equally impossible backhand and chopped up into his armpit. Suddenly there was no one around him, and Crowley grinned. They'd made it through. They were going to do it. The traitor's few remaining guards had formed up into a knot of determined, scared men, and the traitor himself was holding a sword in a shaky grip. All of Crowley's friends were still alive. They were going to _win_.

At that moment he recognised the noise that had been in his ears for the past minute. It wasn't thunder; the day was bright and sunny. It was horses. He looked around and his eyes widened as he saw the undeclared army had finally picked a side. Heavily armoured men and horses were coming straight at them, foot soldiers sprinting behind. _We have to retreat!_ Crowley wanted to yell. He only had time to shout, "Richard!"

Lord Stanley's army crashed into them, and Crowley found himself moved away from his friends. He saw Francis unhorsed and trampled, he saw the king fight three men at once and kill two before the third changed his tactics and buried his axe into the king's horse's leg. The animal went down, screaming, and Crowley lost sight of the king. _Fuck this,_ Crowley thought, _fuck this_. He fumbled a mail glove off, made a quick gesture, and the soldiers around him suddenly looked for other men to kill. Crowley looked at the centre of the fight a last time, and saw the king was still alive, still fighting. The man looked over at him, and although the noise of the battle was overwhelming Crowley heard him clearly.

"Anthony! Take me on your horse!"

It wasn't far. He would be safe. He'd always liked Richard, and had been well treated by the man. It was only fair. He was a demon of his word and he'd called this man his friend. Grimly, Crowley spurred his horse toward the king. An enemy axe caught Richard in the back of the head. He stumbled and fell, and the foot soldiers, who were all about them now, hacked at him. Crowley reined his horse in and sat there, unnoticed as the enemy turned his friend into a battered carcass.

The battle was soon over. The king's forces were gone, the king's friends were gone, the king was a naked and abused corpse. Crowley sat on his horse in the middle of it all, dry-eyed and shaking. He wondered what he should do now. Going abroad seemed like a good idea. Going abroad and staying drunk until he'd decided what to do next. Or . . . his eye fell on a little bird fluttering around a scraggled thorn bush. It was peeping at something shiny. As he realised what he was looking at, Crowley slid off his horse and scurried over. The circlet of gold that had gone around the king's helmet was lodged in the bush, and he thought it must have been that first blow that sent it flying from Richard's head. Crowley pulled it out and looked at it, considering. His mind seemed to wake up and he smiled as best he could. No point in crying over spilt milk, all friendships with humans ended in death one way or another. The thing to do was to go on. He had a quick look round, and turned his armour into the sort of thing the traitor's foot soldiers were wearing. Then he slithered off to where the traitor - no, be precise, the _king_ \- was sitting on his horse. He was skinny and plain-faced and had stringy, greasy hair. As he laughed, Crowley could see that he had rotten teeth. _Every inch a king_ , Crowley thought, and became visible.

"My lord!" he said in an excited voice, "my lord! Look! I've found the --," he paused, finding himself unable to call Richard _usurper_ to this man. "I found Richard's crown," he said, holding it up.

"Well done!" the man said, grabbing it from him. "You will be rewarded. What's your name?"

"Anthony Crowley, my lord. I mean, Your Grace," Crowley said modestly.

The king leaned down and smiled at him, displaying his nasty teeth. Crowley looked up at him adoringly and held his breath. He kissed the hand held out to him and babbled on in an appropriately awestruck way. He was glad to see it seemed to be going down well.

 _Henry_ , he thought, _this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship._

 

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End file.
